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Page 27
He came back.
"I want you to kiss me," she said.
She was standing in the middle of the room. Her tall figure in its black
dress was flooded with the weird radiance of the rising moon, nor was the
moonshine whiter than her cheek, nor sadder than her steadfast eyes. Her
lips were soft and yielding, clinging, dewy wet. He had never thought a
kiss could be so sweet, and yet he could have wept, he knew not why.
When he reached his lodgings he was in an extremely nervous condition. In
spite of all that was painful and depressing in the associations of the
event, the idea of having Madeline for his wife in a few days more had
power to fill him with feverish excitement, an excitement all the more
agitating because it was so composite in its elements, and had so little
in common with the exhilaration and light-heartedness of successful
lovers in general. He took one of the doctor's sleeping powders, tried to
read a dry book oil electricity, endeavoured to write a business letter,
smoked a cigar, and finally went to bed.
It seemed to him that he went all the next day in a dazed, dreaming
state, until the moment when he presented himself, after tea, at
Madeline's lodgings, and she opened the door to him. The surprise which
he then experienced was calculated to arouse him had he been indeed
dreaming. His first thought was that she had gone crazy, or else had been
drinking wine to raise her spirits; for there was a flush of excitement
on either cheek, and her eyes were bright and unsteady. In one hand she
held, with a clasp that crumpled the leaves, a small scientific magazine,
which be recognized as having been one of a bundle of periodicals that he
had sent her. With her other hand, instead of taking the hand which he
extended, she clutched his arm and almost pulled him inside the door.
"Henry, do you remember what George Bayley said that might in meeting,
about the river of Lethe, in which, souls were bathed and forgot the
past?"
"I remember something about it," he answered.
"There is such a river. It was not a fable. It has been found again," she
cried.
"Come and sit down, dear don't excite yourself so much. We will talk
quietly," he replied, with a pitiful effort to speak soothingly, for he
made no question that her long brooding had affected her mind.
"Quietly! How do you suppose I can talk quietly?" she exclaimed
excitedly, in her nervous irritation throwing off the hand which he had
laid on her arm. "Henry, see here, I want to ask you something. Supposing
anybody had done something bad and had been very sorry for it, and then
had forgotten it all, forgotten it wholly, would you think that made them
good again? Would it seem so to you? Tell me!"
"Yes, surely; but it isn't necessary they should forget, so long us
they're sorry."
"But supposing they had forgotten too?"
"Yes, surely, it would be as if it had never been."
"Henry," she said, her voice dropping to a low, hushed tone of wonder,
while her eyes were full of mingled awe and exultation, "what if I were
to forget it, forget that you know, forget it all, everything, just as if
it had never been?"
He stared at her with fascinated eyes. She was, indeed, beside herself.
Grief had made her mad.. The significance of his expression seemed to
recall her to herself, and she said--
"You don't understand. Of course not. You think I'm crazy. Here, take it.
Go somewhere and read it. Don't stay here to do it. I couldn't stand to
look on. Go! Hurry! Read it, and then come back."
She thrust the magazine into his hand, and almost pushed him out of the
door. But he went no further than the hall. He could not think of leaving
her in that condition. Then it occurred to him to look at the magazine.
he opened it by the light of the hall lamp, and his eyes fell on these
words, the title of an article: "The Extirpation of Thought Processes. A
New Invention."
If she were crazy, here was at least the clue to her condition. He read
on; his eyes leaped along the lines.
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